


Ice Cream and other stories

by mathildia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:14:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4326411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/pseuds/mathildia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a small collection of terrible things</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Мороженое и другие истории](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13702437) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...ain’t seemly for a man to eat fucking sweets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt by Lingua Mortua

There’s an ice cream vending machine in the canteen that’s probably been there since the 80s. Brock thinks the weird chemical paste it extrudes looks like anaemic puke. He’s never touched the stuff - ain’t seemly for a man to eat fucking sweets. So it’s not exactly a treat when, during a busy, rushed lunch break, Jack slides himself into the seat opposite where Brock’s finishing up and plonks a cardboard container of it in front of him. Brock looks up. Jack’s really tan and his teeth are white and he has a matchstick in the corner of his mouth. He flashes his eyebrows. “Eat it.”

Brock shrugs and picks up the little spatula that’s dug into the ice cream. He scoops some into his mouth and catches the taste straight away. Salty. Soapy. His eyes go wide as he looks up at Jack. Jack’s grinning.

Brock swallows what’s in his mouth and looks over at the ice cream machine. Next to it are three bottles of syrup: Chocolate, caramel and strawberry. He looks back at the ice cream in the cardboard cup, and what’s glistening all over it, and isn’t chocolate or caramel or strawberry. Brock’s mouth is empty now, but the over-familiar taste of it is still on his tongue. There are people everywhere - the canteen is busy. His breath is suddenly ragged and rough. He digs the spatula into the ice cream again - he’s going to do this right in front of all of them. Brock’s dick stirs and Jack leans closer across the table as he takes the second mouthful, “That’s it,” Jack says, “swallow it all, cocksucker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like ice cream very much


	2. Groceries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt from [Bekaylo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bekaylo/pseuds/Bekaylo)

Brock’s at the table reading the newspaper, but he sits a little straighter when he hears Jack’s key in the door. Jack comes in with two bags of groceries. He dumps them on the table, right on Brock’s paper then pushes his sunglasses up onto his head. There’s a little sweat glittering on his brow and a bunch of carnations sticking out of one of the bags. “What’s all this?” says Brock.

Jack’s emptying out groceries, but he stops a moment to clip the back of Brock’s head. “Six months since you moved in, you dumb cunt. Celebration.” He shoves a package of mashed potato into the microwave, then sticks a pan on the gas and throws a steak into it. It hisses on the heat and Jack hums happily, shaking the pan. The small kitchen starts to smell great. A little thrilled, Brock stands up and peers into the bag the steak came out of; all that is left in it is a single tomato. Brock frowns at Jack, who turns as he flips the single T bone in the pan. He waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah. I didn’t get a steak for you, sweetheart. Your special treat is in the other bag. It’s just what you deserve for putting up with me.” He’s smiling. “Precious faggot that you are.” 

Brock leans over, takes the carnations out of the second bag and places them on the table. There isn’t much else inside. Just one thing. Brock pulls it out and looks at it. “Jack?” Brock says, voice shaking, “Jack, we don’t have a dog.” Brock licks his dry lips and his dick is so hard, so suddenly, he’s surprised he managed to speak at all. And Jack already has a bowl from the dresser - a bowl he’s putting on the floor. He takes the tin from Brock’s hand.


	3. “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

“Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

Jack crouched down next to the cage and shook his head. “Nah, fucker, nah. You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that. Try begging me. Beg me to let you out.”

“Oh c’mon. Let me out. It’s been hours.” Brock’s fingers curled around the wire mesh door and shook. The padlock clattered. He was naked in the cage. It was 6’x4’x4’ - made for a dog. Jack had bought it online. “Just for fun,” he’d said when the package arrived. “For fun.”

Brock’s dick had got hard when Jack snapped the padlock closed, but that had been a while ago. Even for a strong man like Brock, the cramped space was getting strenuous.

Jack licked his top lip. He was very clearly hard in his jeans looking at Brock, hunched over in the cage. “Unless you’re gonna make me a better offer than a fucking massage, you’re gonna have to figure out how to sleep in there.”

Brock’s stomach flipped. “Fuck. Jesus, no!” And Jack wouldn’t, would he? They had work tomorrow. Jack was never irresponsible. But he was good at making Brock think he might be. “Please.” Brock looked up at Jack with wet eyes. “I’ll suck your dick if you let me out. I’l suck you so good.”

“Nah. I get that all the time. Cocksucking is too easy for you, cocksucker.”

Brock swallowed. “Okay. You can fuck me. Cruel as you like. Fuck me with whatever you want. Fucking baseball bat if you want. You can do what you want. Just let me out, please. Please, sir.”

Jack pushed one finger through the bars of the cage. “Oh,” he said, pulling a sorrowful face. “Poor little fag, really doesn’t like his new home.”

Brock pressed close to Jack’s touch. Just one finger at his shoulder. “Please. I want to come out and be with you. If you let me out I’ll…I’ll…” - and suddenly he got it - “… I’ll read that book.”

Jack stilled. “You’ll read a book?”

“Yes. That one you wanted me to read. The one you said you really liked.”

“Jane Eyre? You’ll read Jane Eyre?” Jack’s eyes were sparkling, suddenly.

Brock nodded. “If you let me out, yeah.”

Jack took the key chain from around his neck.


	4. “Teach me how to play?”

“Teach me how to play?”

Jack looks up from his book. “What? That?”

Brock nods. He’s leaning in the doorway of Jack’s room, looking handsome, - beautiful almost. Jack often thinks to himself that he never quite saw anyone as pretty as Brock, the way he likes to do the things Jack likes to do to him just seems like an almost unthinkable bonus. Today he’s in jeans. Nothing on top. His body looks so good. Jack’s sure he’s up to something. It’ll be one thing with Brock - always the same thing. He has a package in his hand. A familiar one. “Yeah,” Brock says airily. “Hear you’re something of an expert. Teach me.”

Jack forces away a smile and looks back at his book. He’s been reading 19th century novels since Christmas. He’s on Jane Eyre now and he’d quite like to finish it. He doesn’t look up as he speaks. “No one needs to be taught how to play an erotic dice game you fucking ass. You roll the dice, you do what the dice say. A child could do it. Although a child shouldn’t.”

Brock looks at the box in his hands. “Sounds kinda tricky. Can you show me?”

“No I fucking can’t,” Jack says, still not looking up from the book. Jane seemed to be about to marry some fucking vicar, and he was greatly concerned about it.

“Right then,” Brock says as he wanders into the room. “I’ll just have to work it out myself.” He settles himself on the floor at Jack’s feet, knowing better than to use the furniture in Jack’s room without permission, takes the dice out of the package and tosses them on the floor. They roll across the carpet to a jerky stand still. “Ri-ight,” says Brock, looking at them. “Right.”

Jack looks over the top of his book. “What did you get?”

“I got ‘kiss’ and ‘genitals’.” Brock tips his head back, almost into Jack’s lap, and looks up at him. “So what do I do now?”

“You kiss someone’s fucking genitals, you useless cocksucker.”

“Whose genitals do I kiss?” says Brock, frowning.

“The other player. It’s a two player game.”

“Oh,” says Brock. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Jack sets Jane Eyre down on the arm of his chair. “It says so on the box.”

“Oh so it does,” says Brock, picking it up and holding it over his head, still tipped back in Jack’s lap. “That’s a bit of a fucking shame. I wanted something to do during this boring afternoon when my boring boyfriend was reading his book about a donkey and now it seems like I can’t.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” says Jack. “Fucking turn around then.” And as a grinning Brock turns himself so he can bury his face in Jack’s crotch, Jack opens his pants and gets out his soft dick. Brock kisses it, greedily and of course, doesn’t stop there, going to work with his tongue up and down the length of it. Jack grabs his hair. “Uh, uh,” he says. 

“Not yet. Keep still. You can stay like that until I finish the book.”

He picks up Jane Eyre, careful not to lose his place and mutters down at Brock kneeling between his legs, “And it is not about a fucking donkey you ignorant fucking cunt.”


	5. “Kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw I always figured this came right after From Beneath You, It Devours

“Kiss me.”

“Yeah. Fucking funny. No way. Let me past.” 

At Rumlow’s back the bar is busy, packed and noisy. Half of Shield are there somewhere; everyone from Strike Team officers to admin staff. It’s Friday night. Soldiers like to drink. Rumlow jerks his head backwards over his shoulder to demonstrate his point as he says, “Don’t be fucking ridiculous. They’ll fucking see us.” It’s hot and noisy, Rumlow has to lean close to make himself heard. They’re standing too fucking close to each other. And the fact Rumlow’s desperate for a piss isn’t helping any.

Rollins’s big body is blocking the door to the men’s room. A second ago, as Rumlow had hurried through the door, he’d collided with Rollins coming out. He’d sprung away, bitten down on a yelp. Rollins had chuckled quietly and not moved aside.

“I said kiss me, you fucking cunt. No fucker’s fucking looking.” Rollins hunched his shoulders, pulling his face down level with Rumlow’s. “An’ in any case, it’s not like they don’t fucking know, is it?” His voice dropped, lower and softer. “They all see the way you fucking look at me. Tongue practically hanging out your mouth. Fucking drooling. Fucking bitch in heat. You want me so much it’s pathetic. I reckon I could fucking charge you an’ you’d pay. In fact I’m gonna. It’s ten dollars to touch me, faggot. Put it in my fucking pocket. Then kiss me.”

Rumlow looked at Rollins for a second. His chest was enormous, Jesus. His hands too. Rumlow swallowed so hard he was sure it was audible. “Just let me past, you fucking pain in the ass” he snarled. “I need to piss.”

But Rollins reached out and grabbed Rumlow’s crotch, squeezing. Rumlow was hard. It was so obvious. Rollins’s thumb ran over the line of Rumlow’s erection and made him moan, just soft but so desperate. Rollins flicked his eyes to the pocket of his jeans.

And Rumlow gave in.

Rollins kept his hand on Rumlow’s dick while Rumlow took a ten dollar bill from his top pocket, staring at Rollins in a way he hoped was resentful, not aching with lust. He pushed the note into Rollins pocket and didn’t quite hide the tiny, involuntary sound that slipped out of him with when he touched the head Rollins’s own erection through the fabric.

Rollins smiled and nodded.

Rumlow lifted his face to kiss Rollins, as instructed, and Rollins caught him by the throat, the span of his big hand almost wrapping right around it. “Oh no,” he said, “no, no, I didn’t say kiss me on the mouth, bitch.” And holding Rumlow by the neck and the dick, he pulled him back into the bathroom.


	6. Carnival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt by Trill Gutterbug

The beer tent is hot and sticky and full of lowlifes. Brock can see the sweat on Jack’s top lip from 40 feet away. Jack’s playing cards, he’s losing, and the man he’s losing to is bald, thick as fuck, with no neck at all. He could put Brock though a wall. He’s wearing a black and red singlet that has Marco the Strongman written across the back of it. Brock smiles into his glass, _compensating much?_ Fucking Muscle Mary. And that’s the moment Jack points at him - jabbing his smoke in the air - and then the man’s coming over. He grabs Brock’s wrist, like, “Hey honey, your pimp just bet your ass and lost.” Brock catches Jack’s smiling face and he couldn’t break Marco’s hold if he tried.

There’s a pile of stage flats behind a tent. Marco kisses Brock suddenly, thick fingers digging into both biceps - still holding him hard. Sometimes Brock is into kissing when he’s trade, and sometimes not, but Marco kisses him with a snarl and a bite - kisses him like something he just won at the fair. And Brock likes it, sighs into it, but it isn’t long before Marco shoves him away, forcing him over the flats with big arms like fucking hams. Marco is rough and careless smells like motor oil and sweat, and the grease he uses is thin and woefully meagre. It burns so hard, Brock has to bite on his own forearm to not bring the whole carnival down on them. When it’s done, Brock is shaking. Marco climbs off and zips up with a parting shot of “Nice ass, babe.” When he’s gone, Brock jerks himself off, thinking about Jack, playing on and smoking, not even caring if this creature he lost him to hit him, hurt him, split him in half. He comes so quick.

Back inside the tent, the air is thick and yeasty. Brock wanders over to the card table, comes close to Jack. “Don’t look so down, trade,” Jack whispers, grazing a hand over Brock’s thigh. “Your luck’s in, I can feel it.” But Jack’s hand is a mess of 2s and 4s and 7s and Jack’s playing against a man all in black - moustache and top hat like a camp villain. He has a riding crop sticking out of one of his tall boots. He smiles at Brock.


	7. Birthday

“Back, are you, princess? So what do you wanna do?”

Brock’s just got in the door with his bags. It’s 3am. He didn’t think Jack would be awake, but he is. He’s sitting on the couch, in the dark, listening to some shitty jazz. There’s just enough light to see he’s in his underpants, has a beer in his hand, and that there’s enough bristle on his chin to suggest he hasn’t shaved once in the 4 days Brock’s been gone. Brock frowns, drops the bags and shoves both his hands through his hair. “What?”

Jack leans forward. “You dumb ass fag. You forget? It’s your birthday.”

“Oh.” Brock nods as he walks into the room. “Not really. Not until morning,” he says lazily. “And all I want to do right now is sleep.” He slouches right past the couch, right past Jack, heading for the corridor and his own room, his own bed. He’s so tired he doesn’t even hear Jack move. Doesn’t realise until Jack’s on him, grabbing his shoulders and spinning him, slamming his back against the wall beside the door so hard that a little table there rocks and a dirty glass, that has probably been there for days, topples onto it’s side. “Fuck,” says Brock, just before Jack’s mouth is on his, rough as fuck, and with that stubble growth scraping his face raw. And then Brock’s gasping for it. Jack’s bare chest is hot through his jacket, Jack’s bare thigh is pressing between his legs. He’s half hard already, legs so weak that thigh is the only thing holding him vertical. He grinds onto it and keens, “please,” as Jack kisses him, then moans louder as Jack bites his jawline, bites his neck, his ear…

Jack’s hands are unfastening Brock’s shirt. “Your life, fuckhole, would be so much easier, if you just admitted what you fucking want,” Jack says and then he slides onto his knees, getting Brock’s pants down. He brings his mouth breath-close to Brock’s dick. Brock’s hard now and his hips jolt forward of their own accord. His blunt erection bangs into Jack’s upper lip and Jack grabs Brock’s hips painfully-hard to hold him still. “So,” Jack says, looking up, “how about you tell me what you want for your birthday.”  
Brock looks down. His chest is heaving. He rarely gets to see Jack looking up at him, Jack on his knees, “Your,” - he swallows, his voice has gone high as a girl’s - “your mouth?”

“Right,” says Jack, “my mouth is it?” And he rubs his rough cheek against the delicate plate where Brock’s thigh becomes his belly. Brock squirms - he can feel Jack’s breath, hot on his dick. “And what,” Jack says, still rubbing there, “what would you have me do with my mouth?”

Brock swallows again, screws his eyes shut for a moment and mutters, “fucks’s sake,” then opens them and looks down at Jack. “Suck my…, suck my dick. Would you?”

“Would I? This filthy dick here?” Jack casually jerks his head back a little and then spits on Brock’s straining erection. Brock gasps and Jack looks up at him, smiling. “Put that thing in my mouth? And after someone’s spit on it too?” He shrugs. “But okay. As it’s your birthday. I will consider it. Perhaps. Maybe.” Still holding Brock’s hips firm, Jack opens his mouth and brings it achingly close to Brock’s dick, impossibly, hopelessly close. He pushes out his tongue, put doesn’t quite lick it. Brock gives a little whine of frustration and Jack chuckles low in his throat. “But only if you fucking beg for it you desperate fucking whore.”

“Please,” says Brock, and it’s half a sob. And he doesn’t say any other word but that one, for a long, long time.


	8. Jilly Cooper Hydra Husbands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka that thing I wrote because Lingua is a spoilt trash baby

Brock found Jack in the changing room, brushing down his street clothes, folded tennis whites peaking out of a holdall. Brock had drunk three Cosmos at lunch and his head was still light and swimmy despite the rigorous tennis lesson that had followed, but he was certain of how good looking Jack was. It was rare to see a man this handsome at the house. Brock would simply swear that lately Alex was making a point of hiring the ugliest gardeners he could find.

Brock stopped in the changing room doorway, jutting one hip forward in his tight shorts. “Leaving already?”

“Yep.” Jack sat down and picked up a shoe.

“Was it something I said?”

Jack looked confused. “Your husband’s only paying me to teach you tennis, Mr Rumlow.”

“Call me Brock, please.” Brock took a small step into the changing room, still posing, his weight on one hip. “And, you know, my husband’s never here.”

Jack pulled his foot up onto the bench and started to lace up one his street shoes. He nodded, not looking. “That right?”

“Not hardly ever. He travels all the time. He sees other people too. Fucks them. Men, women, I don’t know. He’s tired of me.” Brock tossed his head. “He hasn’t touched me in…,” Jack looked up with one eyebrow cocked - Brock swallowed, dropped his voice. “In months.”

“Really?” Jack eyes slid up and down Brock’s body in a way that made Brock’s breath catch. “That’s quite a shame.”

“Isn’t it? I miss it, you know. When we were first married he could be so…. forceful.”

“Forceful?” Jack took his time saying it. “Really? He doesn’t seem the type.”

“Sometimes they don’t.” Brock shrugged elegantly. “Other times though, other times you can just look at a man and know he’s gonna hold you down and make you beg for it.” Brock stared at Jack. “And I miss it.” There was a supply cupboard at the end of the room. Waist height. The perfect height for Jack to bend Brock over and… Brock shivered, staring at it.

“I bet you do. Still…,” Jack stood, fully dressed now and shouldered his holdall. He followed Brock’s gaze to the supply cupboard, then looked back to Brock. “Still, I’m just here to teach you to play tennis, sir.”

As Jack walked towards the door, Brock took a step back and blocked his way. “So you won’t then?” Brock’s lip quivered. “You’re saying no? You’re saying no to me?”

Jack looked at Brock again. They were close in the doorway, almost touching. Brock could smell the sweat on Jack’s body. Brock’s thighs were shaking. Jack smiled. “I’m not saying no. What I’m saying, sir, is that sort of thing, what you’re talking about… that’s gonna cost you a lot more than what your husband’s paying me for tennis lessons.”


	9. Untitled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to a piece by Lingua Mortua which is in her drabbles section. (And I will add a link, like, in a minute.)

He’s doing paperwork. It’s friday and all those fucking rookie shits are gonna be in the bar by now. Little did they know the clerical delights that awaited them when they progressed up the ranks.

Jack reckons he knows him well enough now, has paid enough attention, to recognise him just by footfall. Or perhaps it’s his smell. That cologne he probably thinks is classy but has too much citron and not enough base to be the real deal. “What do you want, Rumlow?” he says, snappy, not looking up.  
Rumlow, posing in the doorway almost certainly, sniffs and says, “I want to know what you’re doing?”

“I’m fucking tap dancing. Get out.”

“I don’t mean now.” Jack looks up then, does look at him… And, Christ, he doesn’t have a shirt on. His jeans are so low on his hips, Jack can see the bristly edge of his pubic hair. He’s wandering across the office towards Jack’s desk, thumbs hooked into belt loops. “I mean,” he says, “what do you think you’re doing, teasing me all the time. You don’t think it’s a bit…” And he pauses long enough to sit his little ass on Jack’s desk. “…a bit obvious.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “You have a stupid name. And you’re a piece of shit. It amuses me.”

“Hmm.” Rumlow bites his bottom lip and looks over the edge of the desk right at Jack’s crotch. “I amuse you.” He’s breathing a bit heavy. “I like that, sir.”

“Fuck off, Rumlow.” Jack looks away, looks purposefully back at his paperwork. “I don’t know what this floorshow is in aid of, but I ain’t buying. Get the fuck out.”

“Get out, huh? Why don’t you make me?” Rumlow swings himself around on the desk so he’s straddling Jack’s chair, sitting right on his paperwork, scrumpling it under his ass.

Jack looks up again. “Don’t. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I have every idea what I’m doing, Agent Rollins,” Rumlow says, lifting a hand to run two fingers over his collar bone. “You tease me, you pick on me, and only me. So why? I know why. Course I do. I know what I fucking look like. I know what men like you want from boys like me. But what puzzles me…” Rumlow drops his gaze to his own hand as he slips it down his chest to a nipple and plays over it. He looks up at Jack through a drift of dark hair. “What puzzle’s me is, why you bother with all this name calling and playground teasing. If you want me, why don’t you just take what you want?”

Jack huffs out a breath. He’s fucking hard in his pants watching this little shit play with himself. He’s breathy when he speaks. “Because I don’t do that. I don’t do anything to anyone they don’t want me to do.”

Rumlow slides closer over the desk. “What if I do want you to?”

“Then ask for it.”

Rumlow reaches out and takes Jack’s tie. He pulls him closer. Jack lets him. “Fuck me,” breathes. “Fuck me over your desk. Take me by the hair, by the neck, and turn me over, bend me over. Rip down my jeans, spank my ass and lick me until I’m screaming. Then fuck me. Hard. Hold my face down, press my face into the wood so hard I can’t breathe. Don’t let me touch myself. Don’t let me have anything. Fuck me and come in me, come on me, make me lick it off your fingers.” Rumlow’s panting.

Jack looks at him, lets his eyes glide over his tenting crotch. “You’re ridiculous,” he says…


	10. “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”

“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”

Jack caught Brock’s chin with his free hand and adjusted it higher to make Brock gasp. “Did I?” He was still smiling, smiling like he knew something, teeth glittering in the moonlight through the small window. There was sweat on his brow and on his bare shoulders, running silver down his chest..

Brock was sitting up in bed, back pressed to the wall while Jack straddled him. His arms were pulled behind him, strapped roughly together with Jack’s belt, tight enough that Brock could feel a burn in his shoulders. Every part of Brock’s body felt taut. Sweat on his top lip, damp hair in his eyes. It felt like he’d been on the edge of an orgasm for hours. “Why are you smiling, you bastard?” he panted. “What are you going to do?”

Jack didn’t answer, leant closer, big hands on Brock’s shoulders, close enough enough to kiss, didn’t. He made him wait for it, straining with shuddering lips, until he whimpered.

Jack kissed him then - but just a ghost of a kiss, in a flash of white teeth. He grabbed Brock tight by the hair and brushed his mouth against Brock’s shaking lips, opening up a little, just to tease. Brock let his own mouth fall wide and needy under Jack, little stuttering breaths Brock couldn’t hide, as he pulled against the belt and Jack’s grip and reached and reached for Jack’s tongue, moaning for it. Jack didn’t give it to him, and was still smiling, smiling against Brock’s helpless mouth. Eventually, Jack flicked his tongue once under Brock’s top lip, then pulled away. Brock groaned. “Please, you bastard, please.” Jack’s twisted his hand in Brock’s hair. Brock keened. “Just fucking kiss me.” He tried to jerk his hips.

“Have some fucking patience, can’t you?” One of Jack’s hands slipped down from Brock’s hair and sealed his mouth. He tipped Brock’s head back. Jack’s tongue went to Brock’s neck, licking a long, thick stripe from his clavicle to his ear lobe. Brock moaned, hips trying to jolt under Jack’s thighs. Jack bit Brock’s jaw hard enough to make him yelp, and then set to work making yet another trail of sucked bruises down Brock’s neck, matching the ones he’d already left, fading on Brock’s skin.

Brock writhed, twisted in Jack’s grip, tried to struggle free from the belt, moaned under Jack’s lips.., his teeth, as he bit into where he sucked. “Please,” he managed when Jack moved his hand, shamelessly breathy. “God, please. Touch me. Touch my dick. Bastard.”

But Jack wasn’t interested in being hurried. He ignored Brock and spent a long forever teasing his neck with teeth and his hot, wet tongue; teased until Brock’s was straining and squirming at the points where Jack’s big hands and thick thighs held him down - fighting to rub his hard, dripping dick on the back of Jack’s bare ass.

Brock looked up at Jack, desperate lust making his vision swim. “Are you still fucking smiling?” he panted. “Why are you smiling?”

“Well…” Jack braced one arm on the wall and reached back with his other hand. He took hold of Brock’s dick, lifted his hips and then set himself back down, guiding Brock inside him. The sudden feel of him was hot, tight and slick. Jack slid himself right down onto Brock’s erection, with a low gasp, leaning in and kissing Brock hard, drinking him like he wanted to swallow down all of Brock’s reaction to Jack suddenly fucking himself on his dick.

Brock kissed back, desperate, hips up slamming to fuck into Jack, without his arms he had to press his shoulders hard into the wall behind him for leverage. He moaned and moaned, to do it, moaned over and over. After a few moments, gasping, he broke the kiss and managed to rock his head away, turning it into the salty, hot well of Jack’s armpit - the scent of Jack’s sweat there almost enough to make him come - he gasped, “Jesus, Jack, Jesus, what the fuck? What the fuck, you bastard! When did you even…?”

Jack moved his face to Brock’s ear, where he kissed it, bit it and then licked the spot he’d bitten. Brock yelped, bucking up with his dick. “Yeah,” Jack breathed, half a moan of pleasure, hot, pressing Brock’s face further into the the damp, musky hair under his arm, “C’mon, daddy, fucking fuck me. Make me come on your cock.”

So Brock did.


	11. “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”

“You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”

Jack didn’t move. Brock tore off one of his gauntlets and jammed two fingers into Jack’s neck. There was a pulse, but it was weak. Jack was bleeding out from a huge jagged wound on his side and the rubble he’d fallen onto was soaked in his blood.

Jack’s eyes fluttered open. His mouth moved, but his voice was so soft Brock couldn’t hear.

Brock took his helmet off and put his ear to Jack’s mouth, one hand laid on his chest. “What? Say again?”

“I said,” Jack rasped. “You can’t do what without me?”

Jack’s last word was half cut off as another missile flew over their heads and exploded about half a mile away. The ground shook. There was a round of answering fire and when it stilled, Brock turned his head so he was looking into Jack’s eyes. “I can’t do fucking anything without you, you fucker. You’re my fucking, my fucking life, okay. I can’t imagine…” Brock stopped talking, is throat thick. There was so much blood under Jack. He looked around the blasted buildings and darkening sky. No one was coming for them. It was too late anyway.

Jack chuckled and coughed. Some blood came from his mouth and splashed on his bottom lip. “No need to get sentimental, cocksucker.”

“Why?” said Brock, reaching out and wiping away the blood. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What am I going to…” Jack’s voice was so quiet, just shapes on his breath. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it , you piece of shit. When we get home I’m going to have you take off all your clothes, get on your….” Jack stopped, coughing, but only for a couple of seconds. “Get on your fucking knees for me, crawl, lick my boots, beg. Oh you’re gonna fucking beg…” He stopped to cough again, more blood came up in a spurt and dripped down his chin. Brock wiped it away. “Gonna spank you after that you pathetic faggot, gonna spank you until you fucking cry…” Jack stopped. His eyes closed.

“Jack!” Brock went for Jack’s pulse again. He couldn’t find it. “Jack,” he said, frantic, tears falling now, blurring his vision. “Jack, what will you do then Jack? Will you fuck me, Jack? Hard. On the floor. Use me and give me nothing in return? Yeah? Yeah?”

“Huh,” Jack muttered without opening his eyes. “Huh, yeah, sure… yeah…”

Brock nodded and wiped his eyes. He leaned down and kissed Jack on the forehead.


	12. Chores

When Jack comes in Brock’s on the couch, kinda sprawled there, comfortable, shirt rumpled up, half unbuttoned, beer in one hand. Steve’s kneeling on the floor. Usually, Steve isn’t allowed to use the furniture outside his own room. Steve’s naked and his face is in Brock’s crotch. Not doing anything, Brock’s pants are on. Steve’s just pressing his nose against Brock’s zipper because that’s where Brock left him.

Jack sits on the armchair opposite, slinging one leg over the chair and lighting a smoke with a lazy flick of his zippo. He looks hot and unshaven, bit sweaty from outside. He blows smoke towards Brock and eventually says, “Good fucking day then?”

Brock shifts in his seat. He can feel Steve shake a bit - it turns him on so much when he’s naked and Jack ignores him. “Yeah,” says Brock, sliding forward so his crotch presses a little more firmly on Steve’s face. “Just spent the day here. Kicking back. Read a bit, got a few chores done.”

“Yeah, I noticed. The bathroom looks good.” Jack takes another long drag, exhales and smiles. “You get the floor done? It’s fucking sparkling or some shit. You could eat off it. What you clean it with?”

Brock shrugs. He feels Steve moan quietly against his dick. The back of Steve’s neck is blushing red. “Nothing special,” says Brock. “Same thing I cleaned the toilet with.”


	13. His Boots and his Belt and his Gun and his Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed one. Here it is.

There have been times, y’know, times, when Brock has looked at Jack’s boots and completely forgotten what he’s doing. Forgotten! Lost a train of thought. Or worse. Him! Rumlow! Who doesn’t make mistakes. Who hasn’t really slipped in 20 years. But… y’know… but… Jacks boots. Really, his boots, and his belt, and his gun and his smile, but mostly his boots. All the other three have been to their bed. So Brock fixates on the boots. Fixates too much. And, hey, Jack’s a careful guy. He might like to make it seem like he’s ruthless, careless even, but he isn’t. And if he knew, if he knew his boots made Brock miss his mark from time to time, he’d… well, what would he do? What could he do? Brock doesn’t know what he’d do. But he doesn’t tell.

He doesn’t tell that sometimes, out on an op, deep in a interrogation room or waiting, slow breathing, in the belly of a jet, he looks at Jack’s boots and just… he thinks about them on his shoulder blade, or the pattern of the ridged sole pressing on the back of his neck until his face is held on the floor. He thinks about his head being shoved down by the hair so he can press a grudging, sour kiss onto the dusty dome of each toe cap, of being made to lick them clean with the threat of a kick, or the soft click of Jack’s gun, cocked, right by his ear. “Lick. My fucking boots clean. Faggot.” And he thinks about having the sole presented to his gasping face and being so broken he just presses out his wide flat tongue to lick desperately at the filthiest part of Jack’s boot, even the lowest part of Jack demanding Brock’s reverence and worship if he’s to even think about getting to come later.

He doesn’t say, he never says. Until one day, one quiet day, when the press of meetings has left both of them coiled like frustrated springs, Brock is looking at Jack’s boots, hard and careless, and Jack sees him, catches his eye. And Jack winks and licks his top lip like a cat.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr, me http://mathildia.tumblr.com/


End file.
